


when all the world's aflame

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Burns, Humanstuck, Kidnapping, Loss of Powers, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Injuries, Reincarnation, Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-07-08 16:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: You're not an organized guy. Your extended family's disorganized enough to be drastically different (one friend of yours argued successfully that you guys cover every MBTI type, BIG yikes). That doesn't mean you're immune to weirdness, though—sure, you'd considered yourself some degree ofimperviousbut this minor pantheon seems determined to prove you wrong...





	1. the prelude to it happening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMockingCrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMockingCrows/gifts).



> "I am an absolute sucker for JohnDave and I'd be down for most scenarios involving them. I adore fantasy settings and folklore and mythology aus in my own time, and I'm always down for seeing more! I'm a -huge- sucker for size differences. Would prefer an AU not related to the game."

Parallels were kind of a big deal around here.

A sleepy little small town was fairly well on its way to being a nice allegory for a village of old, in one of the various books that John's massive clan of cousins and siblings and distant relatives checked out and left lying around the enormous house so often that he couldn't  _help_  but read them. Mythology, it seemed, took place in some of the big cities, but it  _lived_  in small towns.

Or villages.

Whatever!

 

It didn't excuse the fact that he'd been drafted into returning an entire bike's worth of books that he hadn't even  _borrowed_. As much as he liked his relatives, he had to say—this was a bit much, even for them.

Stillllll. He had to confess, he enjoyed the ride there, laden down with books as he was, almost as much as the ride back. The wind at his back, the sun on his skin; it was a perfect day to be out and about, even with two saddlebags full of books on everything from quantum mechanics to Don Quixote. And the heap of mythology books they'd been adding lately, and the ones they'd been put on waitlists for. Was  _everyone_  on a mythology kick?

Nothing could bother him now, not even the puzzle of his family members. Whatever was up, it could wait for a day when the sun was less glorious, when the wind was less perfect, when it didn't feel like he could easily get drunk on the air itself, when—

 

John Egbert's bike nearly goes crashing into a bush, as someone walks past and catches his eye.

 

He would be the first person to admit it: Pretty people were his  _type_. It wasn't like he couldn't offer the same in kind. Not that he'd call himself vague, but John was very,  _very_  aware, of how well muscled he was, of the fact that his grins drew as much attention as his startlingly blue eyes, of the dozens of compliments he'd been paid by girls and boys alike.

But  _damn_. This guy was...if fire had been made into a soul, then this is what it would look like.  
  


John straightened out his course and made a face. For one, he hadn't crashed into anything since he was a kid. For two, whoever this guy was, he could find that out sooner rather than later—it wasn't a very big down, and he'd rather  _not_  scare off the pretty by riding up and introducing himself. Instead, he'd be sensible. He'd go get lunch. If the guy just  _happened_  to look like he was heading off get lunch in the same (or a similar!) area, well, that was just coincidence.

 

And until it  _happened_ , he actually believed that.

 

* * *

 

The pizza place a couple of blocks from the library was his favorite place to eat. It was pretty high up there on the family's top thousand list, actually, carefully aggregated over years of traveling and eating more than half their weight in whatever they could get their hands on. It's got the best pizza in town, no contest whatsoever, and the Harley-English-Crockbert would go so far as to say it was the best in the state, if not the country.

Its fame is legendary in the town, even amongst the newest newcomers—it's one of the reasons he's not that surprised to see the hot new guy there. He's staring up at the menu with a curious sort of expression. Sort of. The shades are making it a bit harder to tell, but he at least looks mildly interested in what the best pizza place in the world has on offer.

 

So of course, John saunters on up to offer some advice.

 

And the new guy turns towards him, wearing a smirk, like he'd expected John to walk up to him and try to flirt. It'd stop John right in his tracks if he weren't so goddamn determined. "Hey there," he says, and holy  _fuck_  even his voice sounds like sex.

"Uh, hey!" Disarming charm is probably John's most effective weapon in any kind of flirtation warfare, and he's absolutely determined to make it work. "I don't think I've seen you around here before, but let me be the first to tell you, you have  _excellent_  taste in pizza shops!"

Hot guy grins, and tilts his head towards the board. "I'd accept the compliment if I knew what I should be ordering."

"Oh, I can definitely help you there," John says, beaming. "I was actually coming in to get something for myself! We could share, or...uh, how much pizza can you put away?"

"On a good day? Probably a large."

Okay, now he's even more interested. "Well, there's a two mediums and two drinks deal. We could go for that, get a side of fries, see where lunch takes us..."

"Perfect," says the gorgeous guy, and when he turns, John catches a glimpse of brilliant red eyes. "My name's Dave."

 

* * *

 

It takes all of one amazing meal to land them in the back of the property, off in the deep part of the woods. It takes ten minutes back there to get Dave pinned up against a tree, with John laying kisses out over burning hot skin. Dave's hands curl into his hair, and John makes a  _very_  pleased noise, gripping at Dave's hips as he grinds up against the gorgeous newcomer.

"You're pretty good at this," Dave murmurs, a hand running through John's hair and cupping the back of his neck. "I'm very impressed."

John pauses, a smirk spreading easily over his face. "Did you expect me to be bad at it?"

"Nope," Dave says, and twists a hand into John's hair and  _yanks_. "So how about you tell me where you learned all of this, hm?"

If John was going to be honest, he'd say that he's a little impressed. Right now, his hand's down Dave's pants, stroking over his length with all the skill he possesses, teasing the head of him, trying to work all the pleasure possible out of him—and yet, Dave seems as cool and relaxed as ever before, as if John wasn't even laying a hand on him at all. It's impressive, and a little disheartening. Time to up his game. "Oh, here and there," he replies, shifting back to sink down to his knees.

But Dave stops him with a grip that feels like iron.

 

And something in the air feels wrong—like everything is too hot, like he's burning up alive, like there's something humming in the air with as much power as a live wire.

John stares up at him, and one corner of Dave's lip curls upwards, as he looks his newest supplicant over. "Not bad. Not bad at all. How about I take you somewhere you can impress me even more, hm?"

"Uh—" There's an undercurrent here that he's not sure about, but he's—well, his whole family has a penchant for leaping into danger. He's not sure about this, though, not in the slightest, not with Dave looking down at him like some kind of untested young god.

So Dave decides for him. "Trust me," he says, as the world begins to shift. "You'll enjoy it."


	2. the actual beginning

_once upon a time there was a boy who fell in love with a god of rising wind and gentle song._

we cannot be together,  _said the god to the boy, for gods are cruel, even when they do not understand that they are and even when they do not mean to be._ you are too young. you know nothing of the world or the winds I create. you would only tie me down.

then I will grow,  _said the boy to the god, for mortals are foolish, full of hope where there should have been none._ I will grow, and I will learn of the world, and of your winds, and we will be free together.

_and years passed._

_and the boy, who had become a man, came back to the god's side once more._

we still cannot be together,  _said the god to the man, for gods are wise, though their wisdom will often come at the worst of times._  I am a god. you are a man. the gulf between us is too wide for a mortal to bridge. I would fall for you, and lose you, and sorrow when you passed. it would kill me, as so little else can kill a god.

then I will become a god,  _said the man to the god, for mortals are dangerous, risking things that are impossible and accomplishing them in the worst of ways_. I will become a god, and I will bridge the gulf, and we will never lose each other.

_and years passed._

_and the boy who had become a man who sought to become a god did not return._

_and the god, who had fallen in love without knowing it, without ever meaning to, without any intention that he would do so, began to sorrow._

_and he began to die._

_and years passed._

_and the god, who was once a boy, who grew to become a man, who dreamed of becoming a god, returned._

_and he found nothing but ashes and dust, the leftover threads of a windstorm, the leftover notes of a quiet song._

_he found fireflies, a dying god's last gift to the world, for there is always one._

will you lead me to where I need to go?  _the new god, for whom heat bloomed and time ticked on and around, asked the fireflies._ will you take me to him? to where I need to be?

_for he knew, as so few of the old gods did, that there was more to find after death._

_and the fireflies said yes._

_and years passed._


	3. the happening commences

When you wake, you're not sure who you are.

You're completely and utterly certain of  _where_  you are, but you're not sure how you know that either. The bed is soft under you, the air is warm over your mostly bare skin, and you are in the realms of the gods.

You also know how you got there, given that your means of transportation is laying next to you and stroking over your thighs.

_Fuck._

Your heart is racing a few beats too fast for you to be completely calm, but you pull on false confidence and give Dave a winning smile, as you prop yourself up on one elbow. Okay. Sure. He'd kidnapped you, you weren't gonna forget that easily, but you were in the realm of the gods, which meant this was  _maybe_  a little different than your everyday garden variety sort of kidnapping!

Possibly.

You weren't sure.

It could just be another Zeus-type thing, but honestly? Dave didn't really seem like the type.

You hoped.

 

Dave gives you an impossibly soft look, right out of those burning-bright eyes, as he watches you get your bearings. When he speaks, you're suddenly very,  _very_  aware, of exactly how much power he'd been bringing to bear on you earlier.

And you're even more aware of how much he'd been holding back.

"Egbert," he murmurs, and it honestly feels like he's wrapped a warm hand, already slick with lube, right around your dick and  _stroked_. "John, if I'm still allowed to call you that. Although I suppose it doesn't matter what I am or am not allowed to do anymore, hm?"

"Wow, okay," you say, and the grin drops away. "So, that's slightly more fucked up than I was hoping it would be, and I think I'm gonna go, like, now."

Fuck. Fuck you, fuck him, fuck all of this, because that makes him  _laugh_ , and you're pretty fucking sure even his  _laugh_  is better than any sex you've ever had. "Sure, you can give it a go. I won't guarantee you'd make it very far, but I wouldn't stop anyone from giving it the old college try."

"You know you're an asshole, right?" It's mostly a rhetorical question. You expect he already knows.

You do not expect him to lunge at you, and even more than that, you do not expect him to be so much  _stronger_  than you. But he is, and you end up pinned on your back, staring up at him, your heart caught in your throat and your dick caught in this  _ridiculously_  twinky harem toga getup thing. "Sure. But you know you're already mine, right?"

 

You get the feeling that he means it to be a rhetorical question too. You also get the feeling that you're supposed to  _know_  something or  _do_  something. 

All you can manage it staring up at him, dumbfounded, for a little bit longer.

 

It pisses him off.

Above you, Dave makes a frustrated sort of noise in the back of his throat and it comes out sounding like a fucking  _growl_. You hate the fact that it makes you a little bit harder. "Are you telling me you don't remember  _anything_?"

"If I remembered something, I'd be telling you!"

His hands burn on your skin, and when he stares down at you, his eyes sear straight through your insistence. "Tell me the truth."

"I—" You swallow, and he snarls, his teeth a hair sharper than they ought to be. "I know this is the realm of the gods, but I don't know, how I know that. I have no fucking clue about anything else, I just know that we're in the realm of the gods and that  _you_  brought me here, I  _swear_ —"

His grip on you eases, and suddenly you feel like you can breathe properly again. When he lifts his hands off of your skin, you hiss in pain—the burns weren't in your imagination, and not even the cool breeze over you soothes the pain away. Dave frowns, at the sight, and mutters something you think might be a swear under his breath. It's a little hard for you to tell, being as you're a little dizzy, what with the pain and the heat and the trying to stay conscious.

"Relax," Dave tells you. "I'll get this taken care of.  _Sleep_."

So you do.

 

* * *

 

When you wake, you're a little more sure of who you are. The pain centers you, some, and pulls your awareness back into your body. For a moment, you feel a flicker of sadness: you'd been so  _sure_  you could chase after that playful little breeze, follow and flow alongside it.

But that's impossible. Almost as impossible as Dave is, almost as impossible as this  _place_  is, almost—

It's then that you realize that Dave is still there, and still staring at you. Or. Staring at you again? You're not entirely sure. Everything's a little bit blurry and fuzzy and hazy and complicated and—

He leans in and slides your glasses back onto your face, and the first three clear up, sort of. In the sense of vision, at the very least. "I didn't think you'd need these," he says, and you're pretty sure that the softness in his voice is about as close to an apology as he can reasonably get.

"Why's that?" You'll play along, for now. You're pretty sure the survival books your siblings and cousins brought home recommended that, at least.

Instead of appreciating the effort, though, he shrugs. "Doesn't matter. How's your burn?"

You glance down at your left shoulder, and try not to flinch: Dave's handprints are burned into your skin like tattoos a shade lighter than your own. "Doesn't hurt anymore," you say, and give a half-hearted shrug.

His frown only seems to deepen, but he shoves off of the...fountain, he'd been sitting on, and heads for the exit of wherever the fuck you are.

 

Now that you've got your glasses back, you can see a little more of what's around you. It's different than the first spot, a quiet fountain done up like a stream spilling down a rock face, sculpted from marble and ferns, a little garden wrapped around you—the longer chair you'd been lounging on.

Really, you'd like to stay a while, maybe explore, but Dave jerks his head. "Get moving. I don't want to push the Witch's good graces further than they'll go."

So you get moving, and you only cast a glance or two back, as Dave tugs you further along.


	4. it can't be happening if you don't remember it

The Witch is familiar—that is to say, her place in the realms is familiar, it gives you many of the same half-caught between feelings as your home does, and you look around as much as you can, as Dave pulls you insistently along.

And then you stop dead, and his next tug yanks you off your feet. "Dave, _wait_."

You're a little surprised that he does.

You are less surprised at the burning look he turns on you. "John, for a god with all the time in the world, I am not a patient man. _What_." When you gesture up at the statue, trying to find the words, he raises an eyebrow. "The Witch. You had questions?"

"No, I just—I recognize her, that's my sister."

Now the look turns to molten pleasure, and he sweeps you back onto your feet. "Yes. Good eye, John, are you sure you don't remember—"

"My sister _Jade_." You try tugging your hand out of your reach, and completely fail to do so. "My human sister. Jade. Harley. Dave, dude, I'm really trying to keep up, but you are kind of freaking me out here!"

Smiles turn to scowls, and he lifts you into his arms like you weigh less than the winds and sets off again. "Even more reason to get you to the Witch. Witch _es_ , I guess, if she's still there."

Tempted as you find yourself to question him, or add commentary of your own, you decide that the best course of action is, once more, staying as quiet as you possibly can. You still remember the feeling of burning warmth, of the fluctuations in Dave's temper and temperature, and—if you weren't completely missing your guess—control.

 

* * *

 

The Witch's home is a rambling, sprawling, greenhouse of a thing—or partially, at least. It looks like it's been cobbled together out of all of the rooms the Witch (whose statue had been covered over in green and growing, and at least partially looked like it had been built to accommodate such) liked best. A solar, a giant bay window, and a greenhouse sticking out the side, several turrets and bartizans, and—and you were reasonably sure she'd included a few oriel windows to cap it all off. It was a place of sunlight and growth, and the amount of space it occupied was staggering, awe-inspiring, epic in the sense of poetry, and—

"Dave, I swear, if you light another fire on my lawn—oh, hi John."

And that was your sister. That was the same sunhat you'd seen her in this morning, when she'd come sauntering around the way, that was the same look in her eyes, and—

And the only thing different about those eyes now was the burning green, so reminiscent of Dave's own.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," you mumble, and fall into yet another faint.

 

* * *

 

You wake, this time, in a room that has those same familiar-not feelings, and more than that, you do not wake alone.

Green eyes fill the space of your vision, and when you try to sit up, strong hands—you remember these—shove you back down. "Water first," Jade tells you, slipping your glasses back onto your face. "Then you'll need something to eat. Dave's lucky I planned ahead for any potential mortals, he would've killed you if he'd kept it up."

There are several eloquent retorts you could use, several questions you desperately want answered, but you start with the one most guaranteed to make you a laughingstock amongst your whole clan: "What?"

Instead, your sister gives you a sympathetic look, and runs a hand over your hair. "When you showed up with Dave, I assumed that meant he'd done things the right way, and you finally remembered. I'm guessing that's not the case at all, is it?"

"No, and he keeps complaining about it—Jade, what's going on?" Your head is pounding, and you drain the water, just a little too fast.

"If I told you, we'd have to start this all over again. Maybe we'll skip the food—I think it's better if you go to sleep." Your eyelids are already getting heavier as she talks, and you try a glare in her general direction. "Hey, complain to me when you remember me! For now, well..."

"Well _what_?" You're mad, you're so mad, but your eyes are closing, and you're way too tired to be properly mad—

"You really should go see a witch."


	5. what happens when you do

"I thought you were the witch."

She laughs, a bright green thing. "Right and wrong. I might be _the_  Witch, but you need to see _a_  witch."

"...like. Back home? When I wake up?"

"Yup!"

You're already despairing and she's barely started suggesting impossible things. This is Jade—presumably the Jade you know, even if she's buying into Dave's delusions—which means there are more impossible things to come. Desperation leaks into your voice: "I'm not even going to _remember_  any of this dream when I wake up."

"Who said it's a dream?" She's already pulled gardening gloves on (when did she have time to do that?), picked up a pair of shears (you didn't think they were there before), and started working on one of her plants. "It's not, so that's one less reason you'll forget!"

"You said it was?" Didn't she? You're feeling more and more confused by the minute. "When I said...I said 'back home when I wake up' and you said 'yup' so doesn't that mean—"

"Ohhhh, okay! I'm with you now." Jade prunes a tiny brown leaf off of a tiny little tree and examines the rest of her creation. "Okay, so—no, this is not a dream, but yes, you are going to do something closely related to 'waking up'! It's closely related enough—from your _very_  mortal perspective—that trying to explain the concept would just confuse you."

"Oh," you say, "great. I'd _really_  hate to be confused."

"You're rude when you're tired! Which I already knew, so go you on being remarkably consistent across...well, that would confuse you too." She picks up the tree, examining it from every possible angle, then sets it down in the center of a surprisingly large hole in the middle of her home. "Pretend for a moment that you're trying to paint a rainbow, but once upon a time, you used to use fifty colors to do that, and now you can only find eight."

For some reason, you can picture this explanation incredibly easily, and for an even more inscrutable reason, picturing it is somehow...painful. You have a feeling it shouldn't be, that Jade doesn't want it to be, and therefore, you resort to humor to smooth the moment over, flashing her a brilliant grin and saying, "Is this supposed to be a metaphor for something?"

Jade rolls her eyes and raps you on the head. "Helloooooo, earth to John!! Everything is a metaphor for something else!"

"But _Jade_ , I don't—" You do not know what you don't, given that the tree just behind Jade has somehow taken root and started sprouting. Or—no, maybe that's wrong? It doesn't seem to be growing _up_  or even growing _out_  so much as just... _growing_. It's like she'd taken a toy tree from a model train set, then suddenly brought it to massive, gleaming life. "Holy shit."

"I think it might be time for you to do that not-waking-up-but-actually-sort-of thing now, John," she says, serious as you've ever heard her.

"Wait," you say, nearly leaping off the couch. "Wait, that tree—"

"John."

"Trees don't just grow like that, Jade!"

She gives you a tired sort of smile, waves a hand at it. "In some places, they can, in others, they do."

"And Dave said _witches_ , that's plural, shouldn't the 'a witch' you want me to meet be here too—"

"Ah," she says, finally sounding like she's back on even ground. "Now that one, I can answer! Even if she's here—and I'm not saying she is and I'm not saying she's not—Dave is doing things all wrong. Sometimes, you can only get to a place by walking there."

"...but we did walk here," you say, blinking. Part of you feels like it might be doing that not-quite-waking-up thing Jade keeps talking about. "Most of the way, I mean."

"It's the other little part of the way that counts, though." Jade gives you a smile, then turns back to look at her tree, now grown into the spaces carved out of her house so easily that you'd think it was meant to be there all along. Maybe it was. You're not so sure of anything anymore. "Think of it like this. Dave put you on a jet plane to get you where _he_  wanted to go, but using a plane meant that _you_  overshot your destination and ended up in the wrong city."

"Why didn't Dave overshoot as well, then, huh?"

"Because for Dave, it's not a matter of planes," she says, and that cryptic answer is the last thing you know before you wake up under a tree in the woods, scorch marks cut into the bark behind you, the scent of time and fire hanging in the air.

 

* * *

 

It takes you all of one walk home to decide that you're going to find a witch if it kills you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 4/13


	6. what did(n't) happen

The witch is Dave's sister.

At least, that's what she tells you when you walk into the coffee shop that a very confused Jane had directed you too. More accurately, she looks you up and down, then gives the sigh of exhausted cat owners and tired siblings everywhere, and _then_  says, "So what has my brother done now?"

You drop like a stone and land like a feather, grateful for the cushy chair motif this place has going. "Crazy shit," you say, as solemnly as you can, wearing twigs in your hair and marks on your skin. If she knows as much as you're thinking she knows, she'll know you held a burning boy's attention maybe a little too long. "My sister...not, my sister? Uh. Someone like my sister said I should find you. The Witch? Do you know her?"

"Everyone knows her," Rose says, then smiles at you in a way that makes you think, _why doesn't she have fangs too?_  "Then again, not everyone knows that they do."

"I guess I'm in the second category, then."

Rose nods, like she really gets it, and the magic of that is for a moment you believe that she really could. "Let's see what we can do about that."

 

You proceed to waste the next half hour of your life.

 

And then you wake up in a place woven from pure light and shining rain.

 

* * *

 

Rose is in the first place you think to look for her: outside whatever room you're in. The view she gets in this place is amazing, you can see why she'd choose to wait outside and lean on the railing, but _damn_  are you done with this shit. "I'm getting very tired of waking up on random couches and beds," you say, in a grumble that she—weirdly enough—seems to find familiar. "Seriously, Rose?"

"Hm. A 'welcome back' party might be a little premature," she says, "but it is good to see you. Also, it's been one couch, one bed, and one patch of slightly scorched grass. Your sample size needs expanding, John Egbert."

"I did not sign up for this spooky shit," you announce, leaning on the railing beside her, staring at the house—at least, you think it's a house—instead of the vista before her.

"Your handle used to be ghostyTrickster."

"That was a _reference._ " You decide not to dwell on the fact that she has this information, or question how she got it. "A reference I made when I was a dumb kid cannot and should not be held against me for the rest of my adult life!"

To your surprise—but also, not, it's what you'd been intending, anyway—Rose laughs. "Wait until stupid references and jokes you make as a child are held against you for the rest of eternity."

"Sounds like a real hoot," you say, and try not to wince when you catch a glimpse of the scenery out of the corner of your eye.

"It can be. Remember, I get to hold things against other people, too."

Maybe you can see the fun in that, maybe you can't. Maybe you'd just really like some answers from all of these people who seem so determined not to give them. "I just want to know what's going on, Rose," you say, staring down at your feet, now. "I'd...I'd just like to not be confused."

"You know, I know it's slow going, but for what it's worth, I really think you're getting it," she says, and you turn to look at her, even more confused. "If you weren't, you wouldn't be trying not to look at everything around you."

"Uh—"

"And you wouldn't be sounding like your old self, instead of uncertain and unsure."

"Right. Great. Okay."

Rose gives you another smile now, and it is much less terrifying than the first. "Waking up will be easier this time. Try to remember what we talked about, and how you got here, okay? When you wake up. Not before."

You consider questioning why. You consider blowing it off with a joke.

You consider a lot of things, but in the end, you just nod, ignore the tightness in your throat, and blink back awake in the middle of a hipster coffee shop, all alone, little bunches of scrabble letters spread out before you.

Something—a mental note you made? Something prods you to take a picture of all the patterns—and words—they make. When you get home, you remember your conversation, and you start looking up all the words for _wind_ , wondering why Rose thought it was necessary to talk about the weather with you for a solid thirty minutes straight. You think maybe you'll never understand that girl. Or her brother, for that matter.


	7. finally, what did

The next time you see Dave, you feel like you know even less than you already did. Your head is buzzing with words of breeze and flight, your heart is dragging from one beat to the next, you're trying to draw connections you're not sure exist.

Actually, you're not quite sure if you exist.

He's standing there, hands buried in his pockets, and there's something like an apology hanging heavy on his head—you think maybe he wears atonement like a kind of crown—and you wonder what the weight must feel like when it reaches his heart. For a moment, a moment and no more, you wish you could give this shining boy everything he ever wanted.

(part of you, you think, has wished that for longer than you know.)

"Hey," he says, and for once he sounds almost ordinary. "Uh."

"It's cool," you tell him, quick to blow off potential remorse. "Seriously, uh, don't worry about it! The whole...everything."

"It's not cool, John," and you have a moment to be grateful that he sounds like _himself_  again, burning bright and whole, "I shouldn't be—I should know better, by now, okay? Shoving myself into your life didn't work the first time, I had no reason to think it would now."

"Dude!" You grip his shoulders, like it'll keep him from burning himself away. Weird how that's not as much of a metaphor as you thought it was. "It's _okay_. I think...I think I...me? The other me, would've wanted you to come find him—me. Uh."

Behind his shades, you think you see tears, but you're not lying when you say it's damn hard to tell. "Yeah?"

"I mean, uh—why else would I have...he...have? Er, why else would I be here, now, as a human? And...apparently living with..." You're still a little lost on all the particulars, but...

It's a little harder to write this off as a funky memory, pretend it's still a dream, when the wind had wrapped around you this morning like an old friend saying hello, when each name that Rose gave you rang true in your bones, when Dave _himself_  is watching you, hope in his fireglow eyes.

"I...I think you might not be crazy. And I think maybe...I'm not either?"

His smile is something you want to bury deep in your chest, and the way he reaches out, the way he pulls you in, the way he's playing at being someone—something—bigger, like he'd only just learned how, is so painfully familiar it hurts. "Well, fuck, dude, if you _think_  so."

"Shut up, Dave," you tell him, and weirdly enough, it's like you're coming home.

And then he kisses you, and that's another kind of homecoming, too.

 

"I've got a lot to catch you up on," he'll tell you later, when you're curled in bed together, counting stars across his skin, glasses gone and nothing but the breeze between you. "Some of what you've missed—"

"Shh," you'll tell him, because you've got time for that later, all the time in the goddamn world, and you'd like to get a little lost in all of the galaxies of him for just a moment longer, selfish though it might be. "C'mere."

 

But that's later, and right now—now, in this moment you think he's frozen forever, in this single second ticking over and over into itself again—you're kissing him like you've never kissed him before, like you've already kissed him a thousand times.

It's not a bad place to end. It's not a bad place to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this definitely ended up going in several different directions that I didn't at all expect, and I think there's still a few stories left here to tell. it's also nowhere near as smutty as I intended it to be (sorry ryn), but I think I still like how it turned out—and hey, maybe something else will happen, and they'll have to deal with all of that too  
> until then, though, loose ends can go hang.


End file.
